


The Unpleasant Arrival of Dramatic Irony

by bea_bickerknife



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: All aboard the Feels train, Implied Repression, Implied Schism-Related Mail Fraud Shenanigans, M/M, Tea & Conversation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-04-14 10:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14134476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_bickerknife/pseuds/bea_bickerknife
Summary: On his way out of town, Jacques drops in on an old friend.





	The Unpleasant Arrival of Dramatic Irony

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I own none of the characters in this work, nor do I derive any remuneration from its posting.

Jacques arrives unannounced.

Of course he does. In all the years Jerome has known him, he’s never once called ahead, and yet he always seems to step in just as someone else is stepping out.

Or stomping out.

 _She might be in a perfectly fine mood_ , he reassures himself as he nears the entry hall. _Perhaps there’s simply no way to walk quietly in those shoes._

“Esmé.”

“Jacques.” Judging by her tone, the shoes weren’t to blame after all. “I would say it’s nice to see you, but lying is _out_.”

It’s the sort of comment he wishes Esmé wouldn’t make, but every time an opportunity to broach the subject presents itself, the words evade him.

Words rarely evade a Snicket. “Honesty is a worthy goal,” Jacques replies, edging past her. The suggestion of an ironic smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “Noble, even.”

The look on Esmé’s face is one her husband hasn’t seen before. “I hope neither of you wanted sugar in your tea,” she sneers, “because you won’t find a single bowl of it in the entire penthouse.” With that, the City’s sixth-most-important financial advisor flounces into the hallway and slams the door behind her.

Jerome offers an apologetic smile and a hand to take his guest’s coat. “Sugar must be _out_ ,” he sighs, although he could have sworn he’d seen Esmé stirring some into her coffee just that morning. The collar of the black wool trenchcoat in his hands is still warm from prolonged contact with its owner’s neck, and when he turns back from hanging it beside his own, he feels an odd sense of relief when his eyes come to rest on the man in front of him.  

Leaner than his brother and taller than his twin, the eldest Snicket sibling looks as if he should stand out in a crowd. The strong jawline and the high cheekbones, the expressive brows and the dark eyes – his features are the same ones Jerome finds so arrestingly beautiful on his wife, and although he doesn’t dwell on it, he also can’t deny that there’s a certain resemblance between the two. Unlike Esmé, however, Jacques has mastered the art of going unnoticed. Where she dresses to demand attention, he dresses to deflect it. With Esmé, a weekend stroll becomes a parade of flashbulbs and noise. With Jacques, it’s like walking with a ghost.

“I wouldn’t know,” mutters the ghost.

“Wouldn’t know?”

“If sugar is _out_.”

“Neither would I.” Jerome leads the way into the nearest kitchen and begins opening cabinets in search of mugs, “All this _in_ and _out_ business, you know, it’s never really been my cup of – ”

“Tea?” asks Jacques, handing him a pair of salmon-colored cups.

“Precisely.”

“It certainly seems to be Esmé’s.”

Jerome busies himself with the kettle. “Oh, she has her own interests,” he replies vaguely.

“I don’t doubt that in the slightest.” With his eyes fixed on the stove, the hand on his shoulder comes as a surprise. “And how are you?”

“Well, it’s an adjustment, of course, but she’s quite a woman, Jacques, I’m telling you. Quite a woman.”

“Jerome.” There’s something comforting about his touch, warm and heavy like a duvet in the dead of winter, and the muscles in Jerome’s neck begin to release the tension he hadn’t known they were storing. “What are you trying not to tell me?”

“You know I don’t like to complain,” he begins reluctantly, turning to face him, “but I’m beginning to worry that Esmé isn’t quite…well, quite what she seemed, I suppose.”

Jacques face says _I told you so_ , but his mouth does not. “How so?”

It’s a delicate subject, and something about the other man’s cologne keeps stealing bits of Jerome’s attention. “After the night we spent together, I thought–or I hoped, really–that is to say, I was under the impression that she felt some sort of…”

For the second time this afternoon, he’s spared from finishing his sentence. “Connection,” supplies Jacques, and Jerome nods.

“You’ve known her longer than I have.” The other man’s hand lingers on his shoulder. It occurs to Jerome that this should perhaps seem strange to him, but he finds himself holding unusually still, as if moving too quickly might startle it away. “Do you think she’ll warm up again when the children arrive?”

“ _No_.” The reply is startlingly vehement. “She’s always loathed children. Listen to me, I don’t think you understand what’s at – ”

“Please, Jacques.” For a moment, they stare at one another, and it’s impossible to tell which of them is more shocked by the interruption. “I know you disapprove of her,” Jerome continues, “but if your concerns are so grave, you might have informed me before the wedding.”

“I did! I had a letter sent directly to the penthouse by a very fast dispatcher to ensure it would arrive in time.”

“Well, I certainly never received it, but since you’re here, I assume my note inviting you to drop by arrived all right.” There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of Jerome’s stomach. “I’m afraid I was rather cross when I wrote it.”

“Inviting–? No, I was on my way to the train station. In fact,” – a glance at his wristwatch – “ _damn_ , there’s no time.” He starts back toward the foyer.

“Where are you headed now?” asks Jerome, hurrying ahead to unlock the door.

“The Village of Fowl Devotees.” Jacques is already shrugging on his coat. “Jerome, I – ” Midway over the threshold, he turns back. There’s an unusual hardness in his eyes, then a flurry of movement, and he wraps the older man in a fierce embrace. “I’ll explain everything when I return. _Everything_. You have my word. And until then,” he whispers, as though someone might be listening, “until then, for God’s sake, _be careful_.”

And then he’s gone, leaving nothing behind but a breath of autumn air and an untouched mug still steaming on the kitchen counter.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was requested by an anonymous Tumblr user


End file.
